Atta girl, Smash the Glass ... Would You Believe It Help me I am caught between the soft covers of this silly book into which I've fallen but can't climb out. The scribe she wanted not just money, nor mere fame. She wanted to put the world to tear and shame Now she's trapped me by her illogic of it all her angry trite sentiment and weeping wounded loneliness She's really not abroad but narrow like her books. She's an organ grinder on her wooden post And her explanations, are beyond imagination, they're divagination Sis, everyone has their own troubles Life's more than just worries and fears Why should we just scrape through and let bewilderment set the measure of all things words, words, words. The pen is pest. If it's not the destination then it is the journey And I am wanted on this voyage, really I am Is it your rage then that makes your vision blur, or just bad Insight. The picture's clear. She would claim of men that there is only enough blood to either think or f**k, but not both. And abreast of all this the other 'men they bleed wisdom the more the merrier But she, well she's birthed A lulu, the monster's in the mirror, from you to us She babbles and mocks Atta girl, smash the glass Would you believe it? In her measure of things Everything is below the belt.